


The odds of probability

by Snoozydog



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Eavesdropping, Holmes Brothers, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Missed Opportunities, Oblivious John Watson, Oral Sex, Sexual Content, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24203893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog
Summary: Five times John Watson almost catches the Holmes brothers in the act, and one time when he actually does.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 98
Kudos: 95





	1. 1993 - The men’s room, Guildhall Art Gallery.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts).



John sighed as his girlfriend pointed to yet another one of the oversized portraits hanging all around them wherever he looked. The paintings had managed to keep him moderately entertained in the beginning, it was after all somewhat fascinating to see how people were portrayed by artists through the centuries even if no one really looked the way he imagined they must have done in reality. 

But whatever attention he had managed to show the endless rows of paintings, it had vanished over an hour ago and by now all interest in anything art related had evaporated along with the idea he had nurtured earlier about him and Gemma being the type of people who went to museums in their spare time. 

She was the first girl he ever dated that had as much as an ounce of class about her and her interests were not like the other girls he had dated previously. 

Gemma liked to read a lot of books and not the usual paperback ones with the words “murder”, “love” or “self-help” in the title that his other girlfriends had favoured. 

Gemma also did the Sunday Times crossword puzzle without cheating, she wanted them to go to museums and galleries on a regular basis to cultivate themselves, and she liked listening to jazz when they were together. Not the easy-listening kind of jazz that even he could appreciate, but more the type where a saxophone screeched in the middle of a long bass solo, like a deranged bird crying out. 

But the reason John really _really_ tolerated any of this quite pretentious nonsense was because Gemma had an appearance that drove him absolutely wild just thinking about it. Undressing her was like unwrapping that delicious green triangular toffee treat from the Quality Street candy box, it felt luxurious because the wrapping was so excessively shiny and so was she. 

But now, after having pretended to be one of _those_ couples for a whole afternoon, when the sun was actually shining outside, Arsenal was playing Manchester United in a few hours on every screen in any pub available and his new shoes were giving his feet terrible blisters, this cultural playacting was beginning to take a toll on his patience. 

On the other hand, Gemma was wearing that black leather skirt that showcased her curves like they had been poured into that garment and wouldn’t it be a pity if he started to whine too soon and ran the risk of annoying her so much that it meant he wouldn’t get the pleasure of removing said skirt at the end of the day?

No, better to endure a little bit more.

But his blisters were really killing him by now and the one located at the back of his left foot was actually pulsating quite a lot. 

While Gemma was intently staring at three chubby cherubs circulating over a some weird-faced lady in a red dress, he mumbled that he needed to go to the loo and headed across the hall to the men’s room to take a look at the damage.

As he walked through the door he expected the place to be deserted, because going to the museum wasn’t what a lot of people opted for when it was this hot outside and there was a big game on the telly later on. Not even the buzz of tourists that usually crowded this place at the weekends were present today. 

It didn’t take long though for him to realise that he wasn’t completely alone in there. 

Someone else was in the cubicle furthest from the door. 

There was a distinct moaning coming form inside it but as John stepped further into the room, the sound of his steps echoing against the walls, it became quiet.

He walked over to one of the other cubicles and sat down on the toilet lid to remove his shoes. 

He almost whimpered with relief as the pressure was off the angry red chafe on his heel and he winced as he realised that he would be forced to put the shoe back on eventually. 

That was when he heard that sound again, coming from the other cubicle. 

This time it sounded more like a whimper and he frowned as he wondered what the other person was doing in there. Maybe he had a chafe on his foot as well?

“You alright in there, mate?” he asked while examining the blister that had developed, prodding the sensitive area with his fingers.

It became quiet again, but this time it didn’t last for long because suddenly a frankly obscene moaning sound was heard and John couldn’t help but widen his eyes in utter surprise. 

A second later his brain caught on to what that sound really indicated. It was far too familiar to be confused with any other type of moaning, heck he had even elicited it himself on occasion, although never such a perverse version of it. 

“Oh, I see.....,” he muttered to himself before pulling his sock back on. 

The sudden distinct sound of pounding against the cubicle door was shortly after heard and caused him to hurry up, manoeuvring his foot back inside the damn shoe.

Whoever these people were, they seemed to be having a good time indeed.

_Lucky bastards_ , he thought wryly to himself as he rose from the toilet lid and headed out of his own cubicle. 

He chanced a quick glance and saw a pair of fancy brown Brogues and then a pair of black sneakers standing very close to one another. 

Immediately a thought crossed his mind as he contemplated the difference in footwear. 

While the Brogues looked really fancy and expensive, the black sneakers, more than anything else looked......well, a bit juvenile. 

Like belonging to a teenager.....

And with that realisation hitting him, a second later his brain supplied him with a plausible explanation that caused his mouth to draw into a thin angry line of disapproval. 

Maybe they were not just a couple having a good time inside the gents at an art museum? Perhaps this was more likely a man bringing a male teen prostitute to a place he knew would be as close to deserted as it could possibly get on a day like this?

John swallowed the impulse to bang on the door to show that he knew what was going on in there and that he certainly didn’t approve of it, but just as he was going to step forward to knock on the door to the other cubicle, that obscene moaning was heard once again and this time it sounded absolutely filthy. 

Wavering between continuing with his initial instinct to bang on the door to interrupt whatever was going on in there or just sneak away, he finally, after giving the closed door a final glance, turned on his heel and marched out. 

Because prostitute or not, there was no way anyone could sound that pleased without actually enjoying themselves and somehow he doubted a prostitute would be _that_ good an actor.

He stayed outside for a little bit, just to see if he could catch the culprits coming out, but as he spotted Gemma coming towards him, her nose in the museum’s brochure, he decided to let it go and get started on his own mission for the day by wrapping up this mind-numbingly boring visit and convince Gemma to go home with him, get out of these bloody shoes as fast as possible and hopefully turn a little attention on that skirt of hers.

Inside the men’s room a man in his mid-twenties, smartly dressed if somewhat dishevelled at the moment, emerged from the now unlocked cubicle furthest from the door, a handkerchief patting the side of his mouth as he stepped over to the sink.

“Really, Sherlock, was that absolutely necessary? He might be on his way right now to alert the guards to some lewd situation going on in here.”

A boy in his late teens reclined nonchalantly on the toilet seat, his trousers still unzipped, revealing his underwear that had haphazardly been pulled up. He rummaged through his pocket to retrieve a cigarette which he effortlessly lighted and put to lips.

“Stop fretting, Mycroft! Even with my cock down your throat, about to orgasm in the most spectacular way possible I could still deduce from the sound of that man’s ridiculously tight shoes that he wanted to leave us to our own entertainment as quickly as possible. He probably thought I was your rent boy.”

The man turned his head to give a glare of disapproval and noticed the cigarette dangling from the teenager’s mouth.

“Put that out, this instant! I don’t want you accidentally setting off the fire alarm as well.”

“Always such a worrywart....” the teenager answered and drew out a significant amount of smoke towards the ceiling where a smoke alarm was installed, his head tilted backwards in a provocative gesture, the glimmer in his eyes daring anyone to force him to do anything he didn’t want to.

The man had had just opened his mouth to give the insolent brat a reprimand when a high, ear-splitting sound resonated through the building and interrupted him.

A second later, the sprinkler system was activated and a downpour showered over the two of them, the man spluttering in shock as his clothes quickly became soaking wet, his hair plastered against his scalp, while the teenager couldn’t help but let out a hearty laugh at the sight of it. 

Then he rose from his seat, threw away the rest of the cigarette and zipped-up his trousers. 

“Time to leave, I guess. Same time, same place next Thursday?”

“If we’re allowed back ...“ the other man grumbled as he quickly followed the teenager out the door.


	2. 1998 - Recovery room, S:t Thomas Hospital

“This is the recovery room for those patients who have been under anaesthesia while undergoing planned surgeries during the past 24 hours. They are usually removed to other wards within a couple of hours or other clinics if they’re posh and wealthy enough to want somewhere private to recuperate, but this is the place where we can monitor them as they wake up after their procedures.”

The head nurse gave the new intern physician a stern look to se if he was keeping up. 

He had arrived yesterday and even if he looked like he was a man who was sure of himself and probably full of the textbook knowledge these young medical students always thought were equal to standing elbows deep in the reality of medical healthcare, she knew that a couple of grinding months working a real hospital could be a truly sobering experience. 

And this one had just survived his first day tagging along one of the surgeons who performed coronary angioplasty procedures and had now become her responsibility for the evening, turning her into some sort of reluctant tour guide of the different areas of healthcare that took place at S:t Thomas hospital. 

It was difficult to say who was more dismayed by this arrangement, the nurse for being ordered to guide an intern around while she should be tending to a million other more pressing matters, or him for being dragged along despite looking absolutely knackered and wouldn't rememeber a thing of what she was telling him at this late hour.

John was indeed beginning to feel very exhausted. 

He had been awake for the past 28 hours and by now not even coffee was preventing his eyes from blinking tiredly while trying to look at least moderately interested in what he was being told. 

He had never before realised that studying to become a doctor could possibly kill you along the way with all the unregular hours, lack of sleep, the stressful situations you were subjected to on a daily basis, as well as that abominable hospital food they served in the canteen. Lucky no one told you this before applying to medical school or no one would want to do it. 

He bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from yawning, but his stomach betrayed him by giving away a growling noise. When was the last time he ate? Could it had been that sorry excuse of a sandwich he had retrieved from the vendor after the first surgery. That was several hours ago.

Somewhere further down the hall an alarm went off and the nurse sighed.

“I’ll need to go check on that. You stay here and wait, alright?”

And with that she was off.

John looked at her retreating back and ran a hand across his features. 

He was bloody knackered and really just wanted to go home to get some sleep. 

He looked around the beds that surrounded him, most of them with curtains drawn so the patients could not be seen from where he was standing. A few groggy moans and some whispering could be heard from behind the partitions, but mostly it was quiet.

He walked over to a water cooler to pour himself a little refreshment and as he stood there filling his cup, he couldn’t help but overhear two voices talking softly behind the curtain closest to where he was standing.

The first voice he heard sounded like it belonged to a young man with a deep baritone, a silky quality to the way he spoke complimented with a little bite to his tone. 

“I told you all those rich representation dinners would clog your arteries in the end. You have a far too deskbound lifestyle to manage all those calories going down your throat without consequences.”

John took a sip of his water and unintentionally steeped a little bit closer. There was a combination of reprimand as well as little bit of worry in that smooth tone of voice. He absentmindedly tried picturing the face belong to it while trying not to think about how tired he was. 

“If I didn’t know from experience that worry always causes your tongue to become particularly waspish, I would feel rather hurt by your comment. I’m after all just out of surgery. But, I’m moved and humbled that you care, my dear,” came a reply and this voice sounded different, more posh, even if the first one certainly had the quality of public school about it as well. This other voice belonged to someone who sounded older, more polished and did not have the same baritone as the first one. 

The posh man’s reply was met with a derisive snort.

“Nothing to be humble about. I mean it. Not even 30 and lying in a hospital bed with the physical ability of a man twice your age. And why is that? Because you have indulged too much and lack the ability resist temptation?”

“The inability to resist temptation has caused me to indulge in other things besides food.....far more _delicious_ things. Besides, you’re hardly one to speak. It wasn’t that long ago since you were the one who decided that injecting poison into your veins was a good idea!”

There was a moment’s pause and John took the opportunity to wrap his head around what exactly was being said between these two. It felt like every word had a totally different meaning that what was actually being said. 

In the end the young, baritone one was the one to break the silence.

“Seems like we both have our vices. Yet only _you_ ended up in surgery on account of yours.”

John couldn’t help but prick his ears a little further while eavesdropping. Despite the seriousness of the words they exchanged and thinly-veiled admonishments going back and forth, there was a clear fondness in their voices. 

“See this surgery as a reassurance of me managing to continue keeping up with you. You wouldn’t want me out of breath and panting all the time, would you?”

There came a soft chuckle in reply.

“Oh, there could be worse fates,” the baritone voice purred and John could feel his cheeks heat all of a sudden. 

The was something undefinably intimate and down-right sensual about that tone of voice even if he couldn’t pinpoint exactly why that was. The conversation was normal enough considering where they were and yet..... 

He couldn’t help but feel as if that voice had been whispering dirty words in his ear. What was the relationship between these two anyway?

“How droll,” the posh one chided, but there was clear affection there as well, “you know very well I’m not taking about _that_ sort of panting. I’m just out of surgery and your mere presence here has an alarming effect on my heart rate even now, no need to add innuendos to worsen my state. You heard the surgeon, I’m not to be put under any physical strain whatsoever for the next couple of weeks.”

Sexy voice, formerly known as baritone voice, chose not to understand that warning.

“Oh, I’m not doing _anything_. I’m just saying that I like it when your out of breath… _panting_ as you put it. For example when you’re pounding your big, hard....”

John’s eyes widened in shock and sexy voice was interrupted before he had the chance to finish his sentence.

“Stop it! I mean it, you can’t come here when I’m lying in my hospital bed as vulnerable as a sick child and….. _tease_ me in such a merciless manner. You said it yourself, I always was too weak to turn down temptation. The heart monitor will go off if you continue with that filthy tongue of yours.”

Posh voice was beginning to sound a bit nervous now and frankly, John could relate, he was getting bloody nervous himself!

But sexy voice clearly wasn’t listening.

“Filthy tongue you say? You mean… _this_ tongue?”

And to John’s further shock there was the moist sound of two mouths locking lips and for a second that was all he heard, frozen in place with the half-empty water cup in his hand. At least a snog wasn’t as bad as the places he had pictured that tongue going.

But just as he began to feel like an intruder to a moment shared between two people who obviously cared very deeply for one another, sexy voice once again decided to turn the notch up just a little bit further.

The was some rustle of fabric and then a loud gasp coming from the posh one.

“No, please, not there.....aaahhh.....”

“What? I thought you said my tongue was filthy? There is only one thing to wash it clean with.....”

And this time there were two audible gasps overheard in the room. 

One from the man being subjected sexy voice’s apparently “filthy” mouth, and then from John himself. Lucky for him posh and sexy seemed to be too engaged in their activities to hear the additional gasp.

He was utterly shocked by the image their obvious actions were conjuring up inside his mind and as he heard another, familiar sucking sound emerging from the other side of the curtain he decided that enough was enough. This was a recovery room for fuck’s sake, not a place where people engaged in sexual activities, however happily given and received! 

Just as he managed to rouse himself from his frozen state and raised his hand to pull away the curtain to give the couple a stern telling off, he became aware of the sound of hasty feet moving from down the hall in his direction.

“Dr Watson, sorry for the delay.”

His tour guide had returned and his arm automatically fell down. She didn’t even give him a second glance before she swished past him and nodded her head in a gesture for him to follow.

“If you come with me please, I’ll try to wrap the rest of the tour quickly enough and you can go home to get some sleep. You’ll be expected to join Dr Levison tomorrow morning at seven for another surgery.”

John hesitated next to the curtain for another short second, pretty sure what it was he was going to see if he just reached out and pulled it away. 

A part of him wanted him to do it, if nothing else to prove to himself that his tired brain wasn’t playing tricks on him, the two men most likely were engaging in what he pictured them to be doing and being absolutely shameless while doing it in a place like this.

But the other part of him, the logical one, noticed the impatience in the nurse’s tone of voice. And he was pretty tired after all, it would benefit him to get to the end of the shift as quickly as possible, and preferably without doing anything that might risk his stay here being prolonged. 

So instead, with the distinct plopping wet sound of someone either licking a really tasty lollypop or giving a very ardent blow-job, giving him the soundtrack of his departure from the recovery room, he hastened his steps to catch up with the retreating back of the nurse.


	3. 2010 - First night at Baker Street

The interview had not gone as planned and he was still unsatisfied with the information provided to him, both from Anthea’s file, from meeting with the man himself as well as from his brother’s own reassurance that he had nothing to worry about.

He knew the time frame to meet up like this was a narrow one, he had ordered the car Anthea and the doctor was riding in to take the longest route possible, but it still didn’t leave a lot of time to talk to Sherlock uninterrupted.

Sherlock had been reclining on the sofa when Mycroft arrived to the flat his little brother had decided to make his new home, posing a languid image despite the fact that a new case was clearly keeping his brain occupied at the moment. 

The idea that Sherlock had decided to share a flat with _anyone_ didn’t sit very well with Mycroft, but out of all the scenarios he had pictured in advance when hearing about it, he had never expected _this_ outcome where the former army doctor not only wasn’t spooked by Sherlock’s eccentric behaviour, untidiness and penchant for murders, but also had opted to tag along to a crime scene, examined the body and then stood ram-rod straight facing Mycroft in an abandoned warehouse while being interrogated by a person he realistically should have feared but probably was too stupid, or as the doctor himself most likely believed, too “brave” to realise the danger he was in. 

As Mycroft had pointed out: “Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity don't you think?”

But the other man had kept his stance, and despite Mycroft trying to casually twirl his umbrella as he left in an act of pretend control, he had not felt reassured at all. 

Sherlock threw his older brother a quick glance as he entered the living room but then turned his eyes back to the ceiling again, clearly too absorbed in his case to focus on anything else right now.

Mycroft pulled up a chair and sat down next to him while he intertwined both hands over the umbrella handle. 

He remained quiet, contemplating his brother on the sofa, posing like a tomb statue, all pale and motionless, fingers steepled under his chin in the classical thinking pose. 

Mycroft didn’t have a lot of time, but also knew not to make the mistake of trying to rush things.

When the silence was threatening to stretch out, Sherlock finally sighed impatiently. 

“I’ve already told you. There is nothing for you to worry about.” 

He used that typical impatient tone of voice he cultivated when only bothering to say something on account of the other person, but in reality didn’t see the benefit of talking at all.

“I’m always worried about you.” Mycroft calmly replied.

“Quite unnecessarily. I’m being a _very_ good boy these days. Look, I even gave up smoking.”

He pointed with an elegant finger to the pack of nicotine patches lying next to him on a small table.

Mycroft didn’t turn his eyes away from the figure lying on the sofa to look where the finger was pointing. What he needed to see was right in front of him. He just had to find a way to get to the point of his visit.

“And that really gladdens me, dear boy. But.....”

“But what, Mycroft?” Sherlock snapped, and with that put an end to whatever it was Mycroft had wanted to say.

The silence settled between them again and Mycroft’s hands took an even firmer grip around the handle, his knuckles almost whitening from the strain. He hated not knowing for certain what this new arrangement meant for their continued relationship and the uncertainty was chipping away at his patience.

Just as he was about to change tactics, the vibration in his pocket indicating a text from Anthea, probably informing him that the car was getting closer to Baker Street and time was running out, Sherlock unexpectedly sighed and raised himself from the sofa and placed himself in front of Mycroft, looking down at him with the advantage of height, watching him through hooded eyelids.

“Really? _Jealousy_ out of all the unnecessary feelings you could waste your energy on? And yet they claim you’re the smartest man in the country?”

Sherlock tutted in disapproval but there was an amused twitch to his mouth now that managed to relax Mycroft a little. 

Clearly his little brother wasn’t as detached as he pretended to be. That at least was a good sign.

“No reason to be of course,” Sherlock continued. “Which should be obvious if you relied on your intelligence instead of letting any weakness dictate how you look at the situation. I have known the man less than 24 hours, and even if I don’t know what kind of romance novels you’ve been reading, I highly doubt I’ll be running away with him into the sunset this early on in the acquaintance. On the other hand, I’m no expert on the subject.”

He raised his eyebrows teasingly and there was the hint of a smug smile on his lips.

“Are you?” he added.

Mycroft wondered if Sherlock knew that he had already had his new flatmate taken in for questioning. It was difficult to tell sometimes, even if Mycroft knew the art of deduction just as well as his brother.

Better not bring it up unless Sherlock did. 

Not that he should need to explain himself, Sherlock clearly had it all figured out anyway, but nonetheless, better not tempt his luck.

Instead he changed tactics.

“I just don’t understand why someone would put up with any of this, if he isn’t completely under your spell already. You’re frankly _abysmal_ to live with, it takes nothing but a look around this place to tell anyone with even an ounce of common sense that this flat will end up exactly like your room back home – messy, smelly, dusty and with the hint of decay in the air.”

He held his hand up preventively as Sherlock opened his mouth to protest.

“And that is without putting your charming self into the equation. Easily bored, snarky at the best of times, down-right poisonous at the worst. No particular care for other individuals and a terrible show-off. And that’s the _kindest_ way to describe you, Sherlock. You’re a menace on two legs and I should know, having suffered your company for most of my life, save those first seven years when you weren’t born yet and my life was still a haven of nothing to worry about.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and snorted.

This wasn’t a new routine between them, they had been doing it for years, danced on the edge, prickling and needling, teasing and jabbing, mostly in jest but occasionally with the intention to draw blood, one misstep and things could turn nasty real fast, but one right step and.....

Well, there was no time contemplating those happy occurrences right now.

What Mycroft had come for after all was to find some reassurance regarding the concern he felt about this new situation Sherlock was finding himself in, and considering that his little brother was chasing a serial killer and Mycroft still worried more about the new flatmate, summarized the situation quite correctly. 

“You seem a little jittery, brother,” Sherlock purred and tilted Mycroft’s chin up so their eyes met. “Why is that?”

Without wavering Mycroft looked into Sherlock’s questioning eyes, knowing that the trick was to never seem hesitant. Show any kind of weakness and his little brother would figure it out and take advantage. 

Sherlock was like a heat missile in that regard, when locked to its target, there was no escaping him.

Mycroft had learned over the years when to play it cool and lie through his teeth to survive that eviscerating dissection Sherlock could perform just by looking at a person. He had learned from the best after all.

Sure, Sherlock had already figured out that Mycroft was jealous, and even if that was slightly embarrassing, it was far better than Sherlock knowing just _how_ jealous and suspicious Mycroft actually was of this new person in his brother’s life. 

So better continue to keep quiet about the warehouse.

“Merely tired, that’s all, brother dear. It’s been a long day.”

Sherlock bent down and touched his lips softly, the whisper of a kiss, letting his hand caress Mycroft’s left cheek before releasing his grip. 

It was surprisingly gentle, and Mycroft felt his heart rate increase slightly despite knowing that nothing more was forthcoming tonight. They were both working by a time schedule after all, just not the same one.

“Sorry, Mycroft. Another time.” Sherlock whispered before slumping back down on the sofa again. “I have a case to solve and I need to stay focused. This has the promise of being something really intriguing, involving an actual serial killer and I haven’t had one of those in ages!”

Mycroft frowned in disapproval at his brother’s words but then rose from his chair and bent over to pick up the packet of nicotine patches.

“Too keep you from resorting to anything more damaging while trying to stay focused,” he said and handed Sherlock the packet. Then he reached down, drew his hand fondly to remove an errant curl from his brother’s forehead, sensing how his phone buzzed yet again in his pocket.

Time to leave.

He had managed to keep himself anonymous earlier when meeting with Dr Watson, not wanting to reveal his true identity until necessary. So, for him to be found here, in Sherlock’s flat, did not feel like a good alternative. No, better to save the proper introductions for another time.

“Be careful,” he said as he headed for the window and glanced out onto the street.

It was still deserted but as his phone buzzed for the third time he knew the car would be coming any minute now.

“I’m always careful.”

“No, you're not.”

There was no reply from the sofa this time.

“Will I see you next weekend?” Mycroft asked as he turned around to give his brother a final look.

“If this case wraps up early, you might see me sooner. Depends on what kind of game this killer is playing.”

Mycroft nodded and began walking towards the door. 

He knew what Sherlock was like when working a case, but he also knew that his brother always returned to him as soon as the work was over. 

Unless these new developments suddenly would put a stop to that. 

A new flatmate, a man willing to tolerate Sherlock for the person he was, there had never been anyone like that before. With the exception of himself of course. 

He just hoped John Watson wouldn’t pose a threat to that special relationship he shared with his brother. If so, he would have to put on a better show the next time, better than the one performed at the warehouse earlier this evening.

“Goodbye, brother mine and do try to be careful. I know you think serial killers exist solely for your entertainment, but there are side effects to them as well. Worst case scenario you end up dead at their hands.”

“I wasn’t planning to, but thank you for the warning,” Sherlock drawled, clearly not listening too closely anymore. 

Mycroft bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement before leaving through the door, heading down the stairs.

A quick glance inside the living room downstairs where the old woman who was Sherlock’s new landlady was sitting in front of her telly watching some inane talk show with a cup that had the distinct aroma of not only containing tea, he went out through her backdoor just as the black car Dr Watson and Anthea was riding in drew up to the kerb at the front. 

He waited for a lingering second with his hand on the door handle, still feeling the sensation from Sherlock's kiss on his lips and chided himself for becoming such a sentimental fool over the years. 

As he then closed the door behind him, he heard the doctor unlock the door by the entrance, oblivious to how narrowly they had escaped one another’s company for a second time this evening. 

Well, Mycroft had been on a time schedule after all.

As soon as he was outside, he texted his assistant to meet him with the car a few streets down and began to walk away from his brother’s flat into the night, hopeful but not fully convinced that his jealous qualms were unfounded.


	4. 2011 - Cross Keys Inn, Grimpen Village

John woke from his sleep by a strange thudding sound that was difficult to locate at first, but after a few groggy moments of blinking into the darkness, he realised the sound wasn’t coming from his own room but from the other side of the wall.

More correctly from the room he knew Greg Lestrade occupied since unexpectedly coming to assist them in the case of Henry Knight and the mysterious monster hound from hell.

The case had been wrapped up last night with the unfortunate fate of Dr Frankland being blown to smithereens, ending an overall strange case John wasn’t sure he would able to fully recount on account of the secrecy surrounding the Baskerville research base. 

After returning to their room he had stumbled to bed, clocked out as soon as his head had hit the pillow and slept undisturbed until now.

He turned to look at the bed next to his where Sherlock was supposed to be sleeping but which naturally had remained more or less untouched since they got here. 

Knowing his friend’s erratic sleeping habits he knew that the most likely explanation was that he had spent the few nights they had been here walking around researching the area while working the case. No surprises there considering how little he slept even back home.

John rubbed his eyes tiredly just as the noise that had woken him in the first place made itself noticed once more. A firm thudding sound that rhythmically resonated from the wall closest to where his bed was located. 

What the hell was going on in there? 

He pricked his ear as the last remnants of sleep was beginning to subside, twisting to stare at the wall as if it would magically reveal what the source of that sound actually was. 

Naturally it didn’t. 

It was just an ordinary wall covered in a gaudy wallpaper with a terribly colourful flower print that made you suspect that the interior decorator either had poor eyesight or a bad taste in design. Probably Gary’s choice John reckoned. 

Suddenly the sound began to fall into a quicker pace and by sheer instinct he jerked back from the wall, just as an idea began to slowly develop inside his tired brain and took him places he had no whish whatsoever to go. 

Because, as unlikely as it sounded, considering circumstances and the fact that they all had been out by the grove just a few hours ago, hallucinating their bloody minds out, as well as chased a mad scientist out onto a mine field, this sound combined with the rhythm of it, made him come to the conclusion that someone, presumably Lestrade as it was his room, was having a spectacular shag on the other side of that wall!

His eyes widened at first when he wrapped his mind around that idea, trying to imagine the grey-haired, middle-aged Detective Inspector with the complicated marriage situation, pounding away in bed during the early morning hours when he should either have be sleeping like any other normal being, or, if he decided to be the professional policeman he claimed to be, ought to be supervising the investigation that a dead body out on a field, even if blown into tiny little pieces, surely would demand of any decent copper.

To be having it off with some random hook-up after the night they had just had was beyond belief!

When had Lestrade even found the time to find a willing participant to invite to his room for a little fun in the sack?

John frowned as he remembered his own botched attempts at flirting with Dr Mortimer for the sake of the case the other night. 

Lestrade had been here for less time than John but was clearly more skilled at finding himself a date to keep his bed warm after returning from their little excursion in the woods. By the sounds of it, a very _energetic_ person.

John wondered who the lucky lady was and how he could have missed Lestrade flirting with one of the locals during the extremely limited time he had been here. 

Sure, running after Sherlock made John more likely to only focus on what his mad flatmate was doing, but for Lestrade to find a date at this Godforsaken place, a person willing to follow him back to his hotel room for a one night only arrangement, that was a whole new level of impressive. 

If Sherlock had been here he would mostly have criticised John for not keeping up with developments and he would also have been able to tell exactly who Lestrade was so forcefully fucking on the other side of the wall, based on some ludicrous small detail that only Sherlock would bother to notice. 

John couldn’t help but grit his teeth the more he thought about it, because God dammit, why could he never managed to get lucky while simultaneously working cases?

Instead he considered his infuriating flatmate to be a constant cock-blocking force, time-demanding, attention-grabbing, all-consuming and impossible for any of John’s dates to compete with. 

Sure, a lot of it was down to John’s inability to say no to Sherlock, but still. Why did someone like _Lestrade_ have all the luck?

Beginning to get more annoyed, the more time he spent thinking about this, he couldn’t help but forcefully bang his fist at the wall and yell loudly to those on the other side to keep it down in there.

For a second the pounding stopped, and grumpily John fell back against his pillow, groaning with frustration. 

Sure, he knew he was being childish, but he needed to get some sleep and put this case behind him. It had not been one of his favourite ones and the memory of him and Sherlock having that heated argument about friendship had not improved his opinion of the time spent out here. 

And now _this_. 

Lestrade having it off in the room next door while John was alone and miserable, dead tired but unable to fall asleep again. And to top it off, Sherlock wasn’t here to keep him company either. 

John simply couldn’t wait to return to London. at least he had his own room there, where he could lock the door, sleep in his own bed and not run the risk of being subjected to other people fucking like rabbits on the other side of a wall.

And just as that comforting image hit him, the pounding returned. 

And damnit if it wasn’t ever louder now! 

Luckily no voices were audible, he wasn’t particularly keen on hearing the sound of Lestrade orgasming on the other side of the decidedly thin wall, thank you very much. 

But this racket was beginning to be downright offensive now. 

He _had_ told them to keep it down after all. 

To still continue with the pounding was a clear declaration of defiance in his eyes, like they wanted to stick it to him for being so spiteful of their happiness. 

Who knew Greg Lestrade was such a downright bastard behind that gentle looking facade?

And just as that thought hit him, he realised that _of course_ Lestrade wasn’t a downright bastard at all, and _of course_ Lestrade wouldn’t continue out of sheer spite just to annoy him, because that was not the kind of man that he was. 

But there was another person, someone who John was very familiar with, who most certainly could be trusted to behave this insolently, and as soon as that realisation hit him and he connected the dots, he couldn’t help but let out a shocked gasp as he turned his eyes towards the empty bed next to his, then looked at the wall where the pounding was downright offensive in its intensity now and then looked back at the empty bed once more. 

The same empty bed where Sherlock was supposed to be sleeping right now, because the case was over and he no longer had any reason to be roaming the area looking for clues. 

And yet he wasn’t here.....

John just stared at the bed for a full minute, completely shocked. 

Because what the bloody hell was going on here and how come he hadn’t noticed any of this before? Was he really as oblivious as Sherlock always claimed him to be?

But now, as the scales had been lifted from his eyes, it suddenly made all the sense in the world! 

All those small telling signs that had been staring him straight in the face all along. Like Lestrade’s willingness to put up with Sherlock’s arrogant behaviour however rude he became, and the D.I allowing a civilian, however smart, to get full access to his crime scenes without hesitation, it had never made any sense to him before. 

Desire truly made you do stupid things apparently....

As unbelievable as it sounded, the pounding had managed to increase even further by now and the anger John felt for being deceived not only by Sherlock but by Lestrade as well, having been completely oblivious to what was going on right under his nose, caused him to angrily take his pillow and throw it forcefully into the wall while he yelled:

“Shut the bloody fuck up!!! I’m trying to sleep in here!”

As expected, his outburst had no effect whatsoever, and now, when knowing who the culprit on the other side of the wall was, he wasn’t even remotely surprised.

But if the other participant in this had even an ounce of decency in his body, Lestrade would probably more susceptible when faced with angry threats. So fuelled by his own rage, John lunged for his phone on the nightside table and dialled Lestrade’s number.

To his increasing annoyance it took a while for the Scotland Yard Detective to pick up and when he finally did, he had the audacity to sound slightly irritated as well as tired.

“John, it’s four o’clock in the morning....” he groaned.

“Oh, I’m well aware! Funny that you should mention that since it’s your fault I’m even aware of the time right now!”

There was a confused pause before Lestrade replied.

“Sorry, I’m not sure I’m keeping up...”

“Oh, by the sound of it, you certainly are!” John growled. 

Lestrade sighed.

“Look. It’s been a crazy night for all of us and I know Sherlock can be a handful even during the best of circumstances, but if your having flatmate-problems I suggest you call his brother instead of me. I have a lot of paperwork in the morning and I really need a few hours of sleep before that.”

“So do _I_!” John yelled, doing his best to direct it towards the pounding wall. 

“Well, you’re more than welcome to just hang up and go back to bed then.” Lestrade sounded dog-tired by now, but that just egged John on even further.

“I gladly would, but your _racket_ is keeping me awake. Oh, and by the way, tell him that I _know everything_. I might be slow to pick up on certain things but I’m not stupid and I know how to put two and two together. And while you’re at it, tell him that there will be hell to pay when I see him!”

“What are you taking about? Do you mean _Sherlock_?”

“Of course, I bloody well do!”

Lestrade sounded even more confused now.

“Why don’t you tell him yourself?”

“Oh, I’m not coming over there just to get an eye-full of your naked arses, why do you think I called in the first place?”

There was a silent moment at Lestrade’s end, but the pounding in the room next door was still going on and John frowned in angry confusion, because _really_ , just how brazen were these people?

When Lestrade finally spoke again, he had a decidedly irritated tone.

“I’m sorry, Joh, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m on my way back to London right now and I’m completely knackered so I really need to focus so I don’t fall asleep behind the wheel. Whatever issues you’re having with Sherlock I suggest you call someone else or take it up with him in person. I’m _not_ on duty right now.”

And with that the call was ended.

John’s anger was doused just as quickly as it had been ignited and he stared dumbly at the phone like he still couldn’t understand what the hell had just happened. 

Then reality caught up with him and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. 

The pounding had stopped as well and in the sobering light of clarity he felt really bad and mortified now. 

He had yelled and pounded on the wall like some deranged maniac, probably coming off like a down-right lunatic, while the poor (well.....) strangers in the room next door where just having a good time. Probably a couple enjoying their holiday in the countryside. 

How utterly awkward! 

Lucky he was getting the hell out of here in the morning. He just needed to be careful to avoid these people tomorrow at breakfast and then pretend he had no knowledge about it, if asked.

John buried his head in his pillow and groaned. Would this awful night never end?

At least Sherlock had not been here to witness him making a fool of himself. He could just imagine the scathing remark rolling off that sharp tongue if he had been present while John went off on his rampage.

Good God, all he wanted was to fall right back to sleep, forget about any of this ever happening and then wake up to a new day that would hopefully take them back to London as soon as possible....

Hopefully without any awkward encounters in the hall outside their room. 

While John was ruminating his recent actions with full mortification, another person, sticky with sweat and ejaculation, was lying on his back on the bed next door, trying to catch his breath as he looked up at his brother’s naked body still straddling him. As always he marvelled at the sight and it had indeed been a spectacular performance. 

Too bad the mood had been disturbed by the noise coming from Sherlock’s aggressive companion next door.

Granted, his brother shouldn’t have egged him on by slamming the bedframe so forcefully against the wall while riding Mycroft’s cock, simply to annoy his flatmate.

But still, the rudeness of some people, shouting like that in the middle of the night!

Sherlock and Mycroft at least had the decency to have kept quiet verbally this once. 

Normally Sherlock was rather vocal when engaging in sexual activities, moaning and writhing under Mycroft’s skilful touch like a third rate porno-star, but tonight’s arrangement had been different, considering the risk they ran by doing it so blatantly next door to where John Watson was unknowingly sleeping. 

Or was supposed to have been sleeping at least.

When Sherlock had called earlier to negotiate another chance at being granted entrance to the Baskerville research base, the opportunity presented to Mycroft had been too good to turn down. He knew it was bound the be great the moment he had answered his phone and been greeted with: 

“Hello, brother dear. How _are_ you....” in that silky-smooth voice that meant that Sherlock was fishing for a favour and was willing to pay for it.

Much unlike those other times when Sherlock just took advantage of Mycroft’s possessions behind his back by pilfering them. Like he had originally done with the access card to the Baskerville base. 

Naturally a punishment for that mishap had been a huge part of the negotiation and even if Sherlock had gritted his teeth at first, he had still presented his naked bottom for Mycroft to smack in the end, when a compromise had been reached that had been satisfactory to the both of them.

TKnowing how loud his brother could get when having sex, he main condition of this particular compromise, besides following Mycroft’s direct orders, had been for Sherlock to not utter so much as a beep during the whole act, and he had handled it splendidly despite the loud banging of the bedpost. 

Mycroft knew that his brother would claim that technically he hadn’t uttered a single word, and that a moving object hitting a wall was no fault of his, and as Mycroft felt very generous after sex and was too satisfied to complain about such a small breach of agreement, he let that one slide. 

Sherlock climbed off his brother’s limp cock and crawled down next to him, laying his head against Mycroft chest. Absentmindedly his fingers played with the chest hair while listening to his older brother regaining his ability to breathe more calmly.

After another minute in silence, Sherlock raised his head to meet his brother’s drowsy eyes.

“Do you have to leave soon?”

“My car is picking me up in 45 minutes, there is still time,” Mycroft mumbled, pressing his nose into Sherlock’s soft hair to inhale the scent.

“I guess John will insist on us leaving early enough as well.” Sherlock said, tilting his head to give his brother better access to the silky curls. He was like cat, purring under Mycroft’s warm breath.

“And why is that?” Mycroft closed his eyes sleepily. ”I thought he liked the countryside?”

“Oh, he did, until he realised he had made a mistake and now he’s too embarrassed to face any of the other guests at the inn.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in question but kept his eyes closed.

“Explain....”

“He thought it was Lestrade having it off with me just now, on account of this being the D.I’s room before he left for London. John didn’t know that though. He saw my empty bed, heard sounds from Lestrade’s room and jumped to conclusions. He tends to do that. They’re always the _wrong_ conclusions, but compliments for continuing to keep trying, I guess. I’m surprised he hasn’t thought of that particular idea before actually. Lestrade and me – it would make perfect sense if you look at it rationally and..... _ouch_!”

Sherlock winced as Mycroft’s fingers pulled a firm grip around his curls in a reprimanding gesture, suddenly not so sleepy anymore. 

Then Sherlock slapped the offensive hand away before he continued.

“Anyway, most likely an angry call made to Lestrade has put him straight and now he believes a random pair is residing here and that he has made a fool of himself for yelling at them through the wall. He will want to leave as soon as possible.”

Mycroft sighed in exasperation.

“I’m not sure what part of that story I disapprove of the most. The idea that he would think you and the detective inspector are engaged in a sexual relationship, that you think that such a relationship would be perfectly reasonable or that you were forced to share a room with the doctor in the first place. I hope that’s not a common occurrence.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“They were out of double rooms.”

Mycroft pursed his lips.

“How unfortunate....”

“Besides, the inn takers are convinced we’re a couple anyway,” Sherlock said casually, giving Mycroft a cheeky grin and a wink before rising from the bed to head for the shower, leaving Mycroft with a deep frown of disapproval, staring with displeasure at his retreating back. 

Perhaps there was still some time left to put in some additional spanking of his insolent little brother Mycroft thought and reached for the riding crop he had brought with him from Sherlock’s flat before coming here. 

Weighing it in his hand for a second, he then rose from the bed and headed for the shower where Sherlock, oblivious to the imminent threat, had just turned on the water in the shower, his back turned against the door.

Mycroft grinned at the sight of him, naked, wet and completely unaware of his older brother’s intentions.

Oh, this was going to be _so rewarding_ he though, a mischievous smile playing on his lips as he silently closed the door behind him.


	5. 2014 - Return to Baker Street

He stared into the darkness, unable to sleep. 

Sherlock Holmes back from the dead? 

If it hadn’t sounded so absurd he would have taken offence, because he had grieved that man, more wholeheartedly than anyone he had ever known. 

Watching his best friend jump to his death in front of him had broken something in him that he had never expected to entirely heal, despite Mary, despite trying to move on, finding a new home, working regular hours at a clinic, leading the normal life that had never been his idea of a perfect existence but had managed to ground him enough to keep on living when everything had come crashing down around him, along with Sherlock’s literal fall from grace.

And now, all of that, all those tears, the pain and the guilt, the nightmares, and his emotional meltdown, it had been wasted on nothing but a scheme from the world biggest ego.

A person who had apparently not been dead at all, but instead had involved pretty much everyone he knew except for his best friend, in an intricate web of lies and deceit in order to fool the world that he had killed himself while secretly sneaking off to infiltrate a criminal network. 

Nothing wrong with that apparently. 

Molly, Mycroft, Sherlock and all those homeless tramps had seemingly no objections about fooling him in their efforts to convince everyone that Sherlock was dead.  
And had not been doing that for a short amount of time either, but for two bloody _years_! 

He gnarled his teeth as his anger began to surge once more and his fists tightened around his duvet while Mary lightly snored next to him. 

He hated this feeling. 

The feeling of having been played for a fool, for having actually mourned a man who had orchestrated this whole charade without batting an eye and then had the audacity to return like no time at all had passed, sporting a fake moustache while pretending to be a French waiter out of all things – like it had just been a great joke to him and still continued to be apparently. 

To top it off he had been focusing more on John’s moustache than anything else, throwing thinly veiled insults regarding its existence while dragging Mary into it as well.

Always playing games, never caring for the feelings of others, how his actions had ruined John’s whole life so completely that no one had believed he would be able to pick up the pieces again.

But he had eventually managed to return to some form of normality and six months ago he had med Mary which had really turned things around for him, and yet, when it was time to start over, with _her_ , Sherlock suddenly decided that it was time to come back and trample all over what little happiness John had managed to scrape together. 

It had been the most important night he had since the day he had been standing on the pavement in front of Bart’s watching his best friend fall to the ground in a spectacular swan dive, afterwards dubbed by the media as Sherlock’s grieving “partner” enclosed in quotation marks of implication in every damn article . 

He hadn’t even cared at the time, it hadn’t mattered any more if people thought Sherlock had been his boyfriend, because he had lost everything and there had been nothing but darkness stretching out in front of him. Like walking into a big black hole of nothingness and never be able to find your way out.

And then all of a sudden, _tadaa! Surprise!_ Guess who’s back and not even a little bit dead!

He might just as well have jumped out of a cake. Probably would have, if there had been one available. 

And yet, despite all the anger John felt, the shock and the resentment, there was something even stronger fighting its way out into the light from a part of his heart that had been closed since that day in march when Sherlock had made the leap from that rooftop and taken John’s whole existence with him in the fall. 

John missed him God dammit!

Yet it felt odd to say so because he had missed Sherlock for two whole years without it changing a damn thing, but now all of a sudden he could miss him and the man was actually within reach, just on the other side of town, in that flat that used to be _his_ home as well and all he wanted to do right now was to run all the way over there, turn back the time and change everything back into how it had once been. 

How it was supposed to have continued to be, forever, if John had been given the option to decide. 

He turned his head to look at Mary who was asleep next to him. 

The woman he had been about to propose to earlier this evening, the woman he had convinced himself was the next best thing when his first option had no longer been available.

“You’re settling for seconds,” Harry had hissed over the phone when he had told her and he had angrily ended the call, because he did not need anyone scrutinizing the seams of his patched-up life, pointing out all the flaws. 

He _wasn’t_ settling!

Mary was kind and easily pleased and normal and everything he had needed after Sherlock, who had been none of those things. 

And yet John missed him....

He rose from the bed and sneaked into the bathroom to take a piss. But the thoughts just kept pushing and prodding, giving him no peace.

And despite all that anger that had resulted in him punching his friend in the face instead of hugging him upon his return, he missed Sherlock profoundly. 

So instead of climbing back into bed with Mary like he should have done, trying to get back to sleep and let the impact of Sherlock’s return take its time to settle by keeping his distance like he had intended, he did the absolute opposite instead by getting dressed and hurrying out the door into the cold dark night, fumbling with his phone to call for a cab.

In another part of London, Mycroft was finally exiting his own car after waiting for Sherlock’s signal that the coast was clear.

As his brother had insisted on springing the news of his return to all those people who mattered to him before it would hit the airwaves tomorrow, Mycroft had been forced to wait quite a long time and his joints were stiff from the cold November night. Temperatures were hitting below zero and tomorrows forecast had predicted a little bit of snow as well. 

On the other hand, compared to the harsh climate of a Serbian dungeon, the autumn in London was nothing but a cold-hearted peck on the cheek.

He quietly opened the front door to his younger brother’s famous home address and sneaked inside, carefully avoiding the steps he knew were bound to make a sound, as he made his way upstairs and finally entered the familiar living room of 221 B Baker Street.

Sherlock was still dressed in his Belstaff coat, curled up in his chair, his knees drawn up, making him look like some strange exotic bird. 

He had sent the text to inform Mycroft that the coast was clear and Mrs Hudson had gone to sleep, but now he just sat there immobile, staring in front of him, not so much as acknowledging his brother standing in the doorway.

Mycroft had tried to warn him earlier that the situation with John would not play out the way Sherlock had imagined it would, but a part of him also felt the childish sting of glee when finally seeing a wedge formed between the former companions who up until the moment Sherlock took the jump from Bart’s, had been more or less inseparable, much to Mycroft’s jealous displeasure. 

He didn’t begrudge his brother from having a friend, but that kind of closeness had been bordering on something beyond normal friendship and as much as it embarrassed him to admit it, he felt relieved that the balance had not been restored just because Sherlock was back from the dead. 

More time for Sherlock to be with Mycroft from now on if John was no longer going to be in the picture.  
Besides, John had that lady friend of his now. The one who had been allowed to get close to John Watson and form a lasting relationship because his interfering flatmate hadn’t been around to distract him anymore. 

Now Mycroft just needed to get Sherlock to realise that the loss of John Watson wasn’t the end of the world.

“It took quite some time for you to finish up informing your so-called _friends_ of your unexpected resurrection,” he said, watching his little brother closely as he spoke. “I didn’t know you had so many friends to begin with or I would have opted to come by later. I was bloody freezing while sitting in that car.”

Sherlock didn’t move nor turn his eyes to look at him as he replied.

“Hardly my fault. There were a lot of … _feelings_ that apparently needed to be out of the way once they saw me. Lestrade actually hugged me. Despite me calling him by the wrong name. Again.”

Mycroft snorted and stepped further into the room.

“Quite a contrast to the way John Watson decided to greet you.” He pointed at Sherlock’s face with a vague gesture. “Does it still hurt? Your nose?”

“If you don’t mind, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

It was strange to hear Sherlock asking for something so politely even if his tone of voice was hollow and indicated that John’s reaction had smarted more than the actual blow. 

It said something about the mood his brother was in. 

He had been antsy ever since getting out of Serbia, probably nerves from coming back to his beloved London again and all those hopes he had vainly nurtured while being away, the naïve belief that everything would somehow return to the way it had been when he left.

But two years had gone by and life tended to wait for no one.

They had not had the chance to talk properly since their escape from Serbia, none of the former intimacy that had existed between them two years prior had been reignited since Sherlock’s return and Mycroft had, with a sense of dread, feared that time had run its course regarding their relationship as well. 

Therefor he had come here with the intention that for once not behave like the sensible older brother who had all the knowledge and condescending advice about human nature that Sherlock had no interest in now anyway. 

All Mycroft wanted was the chance to see if Sherlock still felt the same way about him as he had when he left. 

Mycroft had never once stopped feeling what he did for his little brother, but it wasn’t certain that those feelings would still be reciprocated.

But to able to figure out the lay of the land he needed to get his brother out of his brooding mood and how was he supposed to do that?

He looked around and caught sight of a familiar box he had not laid eyes on for many years and with a soft smile on his lips he walked over to the bookcase and pulled it out from underneath a pile of discarded magazines.

Sherlock had not yet moved but Mycroft could feel his eyes observe his movements so he went about bringing the box to the table between the two chairs in front of the fire place before sitting down in what used to be John Watson’s chair. 

Without asking he removed the lid and silently arranged the contents of the box on the table and then settled himself comfortably in his chair, crossing his leg over the knee and gave his brother a look of anticipation.

Sherlock looked at him for a second without moving a muscle in response, but then a little tug at the corner of his mouth told Mycroft that some sort of success had been reached.

“Really, Mycroft? A boardgame?” Sherlock drawled but Mycroft just gave him a “why not”-sort of look without replying.

Sherlock looked down at the game arranged in front of them and his smile grew wider.

“And from all the games to choose from you went with _this_ one? I have Monopoly stashed away here somewhere. A much better fit for you, I would imagine.”

“Perhaps. But certainly not a game of your taste, little brother.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in question.

“And _Operation_ is?”

“Considering all those injuries you acquired during your two years abroad you should be able to excel at this game by now.”

Their eyes locked for a moment and Mycroft inadvertently held his breath. 

Then Sherlock suddenly started to laugh. 

Not that ironic version, or the fake one or any other laugh that held a tone of insincerity to it, but the genuine variety that Mycroft hadn’t heard for so long that he almost startled from the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him when he heard it. 

“Do you remember why I used to love this game when I was younger?” Sherlock asked.

This time it was Mycroft’s turn to broaden his smile.

“I do. But I’m sure you’ll enlighten me anyway.”

“Naked male body with your type of figure and hairstyle from when we were growing up. The most interesting parts unfortunately not included in the game though.”

Mycroft gave him a pointed look.

“I recall you being very put out about that fact. “

“Well, it takes away the impression of accuracy.”

“It’s a game for _children_ , Sherlock. They don’t need to see genitalia.”

“I was very curious growing up if you recall. And since you were so stingy back then with showing me what you looked like without your clothes on, this boardgame was all I had if I wanted to imagine you naked. Such an important part of the human anatomy missing was quite disappointing for me.”

Mycroft tilted his head and met his brother’s eyes now, his smile turning into something a bit more intimate.

“Well, no need to resort to badly-drawn male bodies of a boardgame when the real thing is on offer these days. If you want it.”

There was an indiscernible glint in his little brother’s eyes before he gave a slight nod and rose slowly from his chair.

“When have I ever not wanted you, Mycroft? Besides, you look much better than your boardgame counterpart these days, brother,” he said smoothly, walking over to where Mycroft was sitting and then lowering himself so he ended up sitting in his lap.

“Well, I should hope so,” Mycroft pointed out. “That man is supposed to be a rather sick patient after all. And a bit overweight as well around the midsection. Lots of hair though.”

“Hair is boring,” Sherlock murmured before leaning in for a kiss that quickly turned into that kind of old-fashioned snog that they seldom took the time to indulge in these days. 

As he came up for air again, Sherlock pressed his forehead gently against Mycroft’s in a rare act of sentiment that had nothing to do with sex, and it was all Mycroft needed to be able to rid himself of those apprehensions he had dreaded earlier that the time apart had somehow created a distance between them that would be difficult to mend. 

He had never wavered in his love for his brother, but Sherlock was such a fickle being and always so difficult to read. It could easily have gone the way it had between his brother and his best friend and Mycroft could feel actual relief surging through him as he felt the familiarity of Sherlock’s touch on his skin.

“For how long do I have you?” He asked.

“I have nothing planned beyond that case you brought me to solve, and so far my markers are showing no sign of any irregular behaviour. So you can stay the night if you want.”

Mycroft nodded and Sherlock rose from his lap and extended his hand.

“Bedroom?”

Without replying Mycroft headed in the direction of his brother’s room while Sherlock walked over to the single lamp illuminating the living room and switched it off before he followed his brother to join him in the bed that hadn’t been slept in for two years but now was going to be put to good use.

Outside John Watson stared up at the now darkened windows with a lump in his throat.

He had arrived a few minutes earlier and stood on the pavement in front of the house that had been his home during the happiest time of his life, just staring at the inviting light coming from inside, indecisive of what his next move should be. 

It had been tempting to just enter the flat, he still had the key in his possession after all and he knew Sherlock would be there, he had seen the flicker of a shadow move behind the curtain. 

But a part of him hesitated, because what the bloody hell was he doing here anyway, in the middle of the night, looking up at the window of his former flat like he could just magically wipe away everything that had happened during these past two years while Sherlock had been gone?

Before Sherlock’s unexpected return John had been about to propose to Mary for God’s sake! 

He had managed to build a new life for himself where he went to work in the morning, performing his medical duties as a general practitioner in a small clinic where he and Mary both worked, leading a normal quiet life where he went to the pub to watch football games on Sunday afternoons, did his grocery shopping just once a week and never bought items from a list scribbled in a spidery handwriting that demanded hyaluronic acid, body parts and lots of milk. He paid the rent and the mortgage on a suburban house that was his new home now and he only got to witness any criminal activity if he watched an episode of Midsomer Murders on the telly. 

Normal things like everyone else did.

Boring things, Sherlock would have said, and a part of John did agree. There was no thrill left in his life, no excitement. 

It had all gone away the day Sherlock had left him behind. 

And wasn’t it tempting to get it all back again? 

Just unlock that door, climb the seventeen steps and pick up where they had left off? 

Sherlock had offered him the opportunity after all, earlier this evening. Some sort of case that needed to be investigated, the two of them against the world again, like old times he had said.

Just like that, with the snap of a finger, there to be had if John really wanted it to happen.

But as he was about to take the final steps towards the door leading back to his old life, the light suddenly went out inside the flat and with that John felt the window of opportunity suddenly closing. 

Sherlock was not going to sit up and wait up for him to change his mind forever. 

He had clearly decided to move on and go to bed instead.

And that settled it somehow.

John began to walk down the street, away from the flat, unaware that inside Mycroft was helping his brother out of his clothes, leaving trails of kisses along his naked upper body, fingers deftly working on the zipper of his trouser. A bottle of lube was already lying ready to be used next to them on the bedside table and Sherlock had that look on his face that meant that his brother was in for a night to be remembered. 

For them things were slowly going back to the way it had been before their long separation, for John it was time to leave his old life behind and come to the realisation that sometimes the possibility of a return was not an option for him anymore.


	6. Present time - Baker Street

What finally did blow their cover was something so unpredictable it was almost laughable in its randomness, a series of unaccountable events that would indicate the universe finally must have tired of them sneaking around with their secret and decided to arrange the reveal of their relationship in a manner that could not have been foreseen even by a true strategist like Mycroft Holmes.

It had all begun with a phone call in the early morning hours that abruptly woke them up.

Or woke Mycroft up more precisely as Sherlock had not actually been asleep, although he was still in bed.

It was the younger one’s phone that disturbed their quiet peace and while he usually would either ignore it or at least screen his call from everyone except Lestrade, Sherlock did answer this time when he saw who the caller was.

John.

Considering the time, 04:55 am, it could be nothing but essential to take the call. Something to do with Rosie perhaps and hurriedly he answered, worry already beginning to bloom inside his chest. 

Despite being considered to not be a people person, Sherlock actually liked children to a certain extent. Mycroft said it probably had to do with him being able to recognise himself in them. 

Children were prone to throw tantrums, act unpredictably, had poor impulse control and were generally considered reckless and easily bored.  
That was the reason _Mycroft_ absolutely abhorred children. Except for the man child his own brother had turned out to be, but that version at least came with some adult benefits that Mycroft was more than happy to indulge in.

John and his daughter had left to visit Harry yesterday afternoon, taking the train from Victoria at 15:45 to some Godforsaken place up north where John’s drunkard of a sister was residing these days. 

Sherlock had talked to her exactly once over the years and that had been enough to realise that she was not worth either the time or the effort spent on her. 

It had been around the time of John’s wedding and as Sherlock had been involved with the guestlist for some unfathomable reason, he had been the one forced to get in contact with the only family member John still had, who, predictably had not bothered to reply to the wedding invitation sent to her, and in Sherlock’s eyes most certainly wouldn’t show up. But Mary had insisted and he had made the call. For John’s sake if nothing else.

He never told John about it afterwards but could only silently commiserate on the misfortune of not being able to choose your own family.

Why John still made the effort to try and connect with that woman was beyond him, but as it meant a free night alone at Baker Street, he had not made any objections to the trip. 

With Mrs Hudson out as well, spending the night with a “friend”, some time alone in the flat opened up to a lot of tempting opportunities, the most obvious one still lying naked next to him in his bed, half-awake and bleary-eyed on account of the disruptive phone call.

The times when Sherlock actually could invite Mycroft over like this were rare and far between. Considering the times he had lived on his own over the years it felt a little strange to never be quite alone at home anymore as he had a flatmate and a child sharing the space with him these days, and sometimes he actually longed for some solitude, even if he did do almost everything he usually did even with others present.

But there was of course one thing he couldn’t do when others were there, and that was inviting his brother over to stay the night.

Something he had learned early on was that people only saw what they could wrap their own limited minds around, and incest was usually not something people in general thought of as a possibility. So it only required a modicum of care to get away with it straight under people’s noses if you avoided the most telling of signs. 

John had been fooled for years, as had the rest of those who were a part of Sherlock’s life, but it dictated that some areas were off limits when it came to him and Mycroft being seen together, and Sherlock’s bedroom was certainly one of those places.

But with everyone else out of the house, the opportunity had been too tempting to miss out on and he had invited Mycroft over no less than 10 minutes after John’s departure.

The one true constant he still had in his life was his older brother. The past years had been nothing but a never-ending rollercoaster of unexpected twists and turns, ups and downs, but the one person always standing there, at the end of the ride, umbrella in hand with his three piece suit on, had been Mycroft. 

Even if they, as all siblings occasionally experienced, had been through their fair share of sibling rivalry, Sherlock had in the end always been infinitely grateful for his brother’s loyalty, presence and love. There had never been anyone else for him.

But now the luxury of a rare night spent at Baker Street, lying together intwined in Sherlock’s bed, Mycroft fast asleep after the physical activities they had indulged in earlier and Sherlock just enjoying the moment, while remaining in that area between sleep and wakefulness when you’re still too sleepy to get up, but not tired enough to actually fall asleep, had now come to an unexpected interruption.

“Yes?” he said hurriedly, expecting John’s anxious voice to come from an ER somewhere, with Rosie suffering a concussion perhaps, a broken arm or possibly the measles. But people got vaccinated for that these days, didn’t they, he thought absentmindedly while waiting for the reply.

To his surprise John did not sound anxious at all when he finally talked. 

He sounded..... _amused_? 

Certainly a tad annoyed as well but mostly entertained if his tone of voice was to be believed. And as the reason for his call was being unravelled like a strange looking yarn of string in front of him, Sherlock couldn’t help but give John kudos for taking it all in stride instead of losing his temper. 

It had nothing to do with Rosie, who was safely taken care off by Molly, while John was now on his way to Holborn Police Station.

To bail Mrs Hudson out.

There was a silent minute where Sherlock just stared out into the dusky light of his bedroom, unable to say anything and, accounting for the fact that the other man must have had the same reaction earlier, John allowed him the space to let those words sink in.

Then Sherlock cleared his throat as he met Mycroft’s questioning eyes from the bed, already sitting hallway up by now, on account of Sherlock’s unusual silence. 

“What’s happened?” he mouthed but Sherlock waived his question away with his hand, focusing on John at the other end of the line.

“What are the charges?”

John actually chuckled.

“Soliciting, if you can believe it. Caught red-handed by an undercover copper.”

“No, I can’t believe it actually,” Sherlock hissed. “It sounds utterly stupid and clearly there has been a mistake. Hardly surprising considering that the idiots who are the representatives of this country’s police force usually act like bumbling idiots.”

He noticed Mycroft rolling his eyes at that. His brother had a far more respectful view of people in charge of things and was strangely loyal to authority, so he always disliked it when Sherlock said things like that. Probably because he was part of authority himself and didn’t like the idea of his little brother mocking them so brazenly.

“It’s what they’ve told me anyway, and I’m hardly in the position to argue, am I?” John continued. “Look, Sherlock, I need you to come down here and help me sort this out. We have to get her out of here. She’s over eighty for Christ’s sake!”

“No need to state the obvious, John. I was there for her latest birthday, ate the cake and commiserated her for getting one year closer to death.”

“ _Sherlock_!”

“What? “

John sighed and Mycroft also shot his brother a look of disapproval.

“Just get here, as soon as possible would you?”

Sherlock gritted his teeth, realising that the rest of Mycroft’s visit was flying out the window right now. Pity, he was quite fond of the morning sex they usually had before Mycroft needed to be off.

“Fine, I’m on my way. I’ll just get dressed first. “

“You were _asleep_?” John sounded surprised.

“I _do_ sleep occasionally, you know,” Sherlock sneered. “I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

“Hurry will you. I don’t know what I’ll find when I get there but I’m pretty sure it won’t be a pleasant sight. Remember that cell you and I slept in when.....”

“Yes, yes, bachelor night, drunk tank, I remember, John. You’re slowing me down!”

Sherlock was already out of bed, rummaging for his clothes that lay discarded on the floor, allowing his brother a good opportunity to look at his naked form as it moved, bending over to pick up a garment while simultaneously trying to end the phone call.

“Sorry, I’ll see you shortly then,” John could be heard saying at the other end, but Sherlock was no longer listening, and Mycroft sighed as his brother motioned him to get out of bed.

“What now? Your little pet not even managing a full day without you?” He quipped dryly.

“It’s not him. It’s Mrs Hudson. She’s gotten herself arrested apparently.”

Mycroft frowned as he tried to picture this, but never got the opportunity to finish that though before his trousers were thrown abruptly in his face.

“Get dressed! We need to get moving!”

“ _We_?”

“I’m hardly leaving you here unsupervised. Who knows how many hidden cameras you manage to install while I’m out of the flat? Besides, if we take your car we can get there faster.”

“But....”

“No time for any overanalysing now, Mycroft. I’m obliged to agree with John that time is of an essence, so will you just put your clothes on so we can get moving?”

Pursing his lips in clear annoyance Mycroft still rose from the bed. But as he was beginning to head towards the bathroom for a quick shower Sherlock lost his patience completely.

“Where do you think you’re going??”

“The shower of course. I’m not putting my 900 £ suit on after what you and I got up to last night.”

“There is no time! Just put you bloody clothes on!”

“That sounds strangely familiar....”Mycroft grumbled but nevertheless did as he was told despite feeling a shudder of disgust as he pulled his underwear on over his buttocks that were covered in stale semen as well as remnants of lube. God knew where the condom had ended up he thought with his lips grimly pressed together in annoyance before he picked his shirt up and started to button it up.

Meanwhile Sherlock had already finished dressing and pulled at his brother’s arm to get him to move out of the bedroom.

“Why are you so annoyingly slow?!”

“It’s not _my_ landlady that has gotten herself arrested. Technically I don’t need to rush at all.”

“You don’t even have a landlady....” 

“Precisely my point. Get rid of her and find yourself having a much less complicated existence. And while you’re at it, lose the flatmate as well.” 

“Just order your car to get here, Mycroft!” 

Sherlock was already wrestling himself into his Belstaff and seconds later he was thundering down the stairs. 

With a sigh Mycroft dialled the number while hanging his jacket and coat over his arm. He might as well get dressed in the car. Sherlock was hardly going to allow him to do it properly inside the flat. 

As they reached the police station and were greeted by John Watson standing by the desk at the front, Mycroft had managed to put all of his clothes on but still felt decidedly rumpled and dishevelled. And by the looks of it when John gave him a surprised glance over accompanied by raised eyebrows, he knew he wasn’t the only one with that opinion. 

It had clearly been a mistake to allow himself to be ordered to follow his brother here. 

“Mycroft? What are _you_ doing here?” John blurted out. 

“What do you think?” Sherlock sighed impatiently. “He is here to wield his magic wand over this unfortunate situation so we can return home with our corrupt landlady as peacefully as possible,” 

While declaring this in his most imperious tone he swivelled his demanding eyes towards the poor desk sergeant in charge. 

John gave Mycroft a last suspicious glare before he turned as well and awaited the onslaught he knew was bound to happen as Sherlock took a deep breath before firing the first shot. 

Less than an hour later they were once again out on the pavement outside the police station, a shaken Mrs Hudson quivering in her thin coat while trying to come up with a coherent explanation for why they were all gathered here in the early morning hours when they should really have been elsewhere, most assumingly in bed. 

Sherlock was already tuning her weak excuses out. John had learned to recognise those signs a long time ago and this time he actually allowed it, considering the ordeal she had put them through. 

Mycroft wasn’t looking particularly pleased either where he was standing a little to the side, his suit still decidedly rumpled, as if he had dressed in a hurry and forgotten the basic rules of hygiene. John had never seen him look anything but pristine before so this was certainly a sight to behold. 

He actually smelled a bit funny as well even if John couldn’t exactly place what that smell truly was. 

If the idea hadn’t been so outlandish he might have suggested that the odour was similar to......well, the way a body smelled after sex, before the obligatory shower occurred. 

But this was _Mycroft_ after all, a man with a stick so thoroughly stuck up his arse that he must be having difficulty taking a shit. Who would he possibly deign worthy to fuck? 

Possibly the Queen, John thought to himself, a small snicker playing on his lips in amusement as he eyed Mycroft while waiting for the car to pull up and take them back to Baker Street. 

In the background Mrs Hudson was still blabbering and Sherlock was now impatiently pacing back and forth in front of them, clearly fed up with the whole situation already. 

It had really been fortunate that Mycroft had been available to come at such a short notice to help them out. Between Mrs Hudson’s outrageous charges, Sherlock’s insults and John’s own short temper they would all still have been stuck inside the police station arguing with that poor desk sergeant if Mycroft hadn’t pulled his weight around and sorted the situation quickly enough. 

It was strange though that Sherlock had managed to get him here so quickly. They had in fact arrived in the same car, come to think of it. As if having been together when John had called..... 

But why would they possibly be together at this early hour? 

No Mycroft had clearly been occupied by something far more pleasant than sniping with his little brother.  
Even if it seemed far-fetched to imagine Mycroft Holmes engaging in anything even remotely sexual, the pong wafting off his persona clearly told a different tale. 

Maybe he had been to one of those high-end brothels where men of power sought to satisfy their desires while trying to remain discreet about it? 

Yeah, that was probably it. Even someone as stuck up as Mycroft needed to get some relief somewhere.... 

John gave the man one last speculative look before he decided to focus on something else rather than thoughts of Mycroft’s potential sex life. 

Or Mrs Hudson’s sex life for that matter.... 

The car ride home was an unpleasant affair.  
The brothers were their usual surly selves again and Mrs Hudson had succumbed to an embarrassed silence while clutching her purse in a tightening grip, staring out the window while probably wishing that she actually had gone to that friend’s house for a visit instead of ending up behind bars on account of some very awkward circumstances. 

John had still not fully been able to grasp what it was that she had done exactly and she was hardly willing to fill in the blanks but Sherlock had probably deduced it already and could provide him with the info later on. 

When they finally reached Baker Street it was difficult to say who was more in a hurry – Mrs Hudson when getting out of the car and into her flat or Mycroft ordering the driver to leave while John was still hallway out of his seat. 

At least that smell was out of his nostrils now and every thought of Mycroft Holmes in flagrante with some expensive prostitute could be out of his mind as well. 

Mrs Hudson had firmly shut the door to her own flat when he came inside and Sherlock had apparently marched up the stairs so there was nothing more to it than for John to follow his friend to their own floor and perhaps put the kettle on to calm themselves down from this ordeal. 

In the living room Sherlock had flung himself down on the sofa like a Victorian damsel swooning, his hand thrown over his eyes, the other one dramatically hanging down to the floor, the epitome of utter melodrama being projected. 

“I’m making some tea, do you want some?” John asked, looking down at his lifeless flatmate. 

“I have a headache.” 

“Yes, I would imagine. Especially if you were actually asleep when I called. An abrupt awakening tends to cause headaches. You should go back to bed now that it’s all sorted.” 

“You know I won’t,” Sherlock mumbled and John nodded, because he did know. Sherlock hardly slept during the best of circumstances, he was certainly not going to do it now after all this had interrupted his initial slumber. 

“I’ll fetch your duvet so you can rest out here if you like,” John said and headed towards Sherlock bedroom. His friend merely mumbled something incoherent and paid him no attention as he entered the bedroom to fetch the duvet. 

As he pulled it off the bed, his eyes caught something lying on the mattress that he first couldn’t figure out what it was, so he, without thinking reached out to grab it before his brain caught up with what he was actually touching and a disgusted yelp escaped his lips. 

“Sherlock!!” 

Between his thumb and forefinger a condom dangled, still full of cum, sticky and utterly disgusting and so out of place in Sherlock’s room that John didn’t know what to do about this discovery besides yell at his friend to get his bloody arse in here and explain himself. 

Naturally Sherlock didn’t deign to rise from his fallen position on the sofa so John was forced to carry the offending thing out into the living room, still dangling from his fingers, waving it in front of his friend’s face. 

“What the hell is this?” 

Sherlock opened one eye, took a quick glance and then closed it again. 

“I believe it’s a condom, John. By your age you should be familiar with those, but the existence of Rosie does explain quite a lot if your knowledge is lacking in that area.” 

“Ha, ha very funny, Sherlock. I mean, what is it doing in _your_ bedroom?” 

A silence settled between them and John kept staring at his friend’s motionless face, then looking at the condom before looking back at Sherlock again. 

My God! What were the odds that both Holmes brothers had been engaged in sexual activities last night? It was difficult to say which scenario was the most unlikely. John had not even been aware that Sherlock had someone to have sex with! 

Wonder if Mycroft knew? 

And as that idea hit him he suddenly realised something that had been poking at his attention ever since seeing Mycroft walking into that police station earlier this morning, crumpled suit and reeking of bodily fluids. 

Mycroft and Sherlock had arrived in the same car, very shortly after John’s call. Not enough time to stop and pick his brother up, brothel or not. 

The added fact that Mycroft had acted quite standoffish, smelled like a combination of sweat and semen and had insisted on leaving straight after bailing Mrs Hudson out, as well as the additional detail that Sherlock had been in bed when John had made the call, and now this.....a used bloody condom on open display in Sherlock’s bed! 

It formed quite a mind-blowing picture. 

One so outlandish in fact that his mind immediately rejected it, until his mouth actually decided to disobey his brain by blurting it out instead of trampling it down. 

“Was Mycroft here when I called you?” 

Inside his head he pleaded with Sherlock to say anything that might reject what he to his horror had managed to conclude by these pieces of evidence. 

_Please say it was Lestrade who was here, or Molly or even bloody Anderson! Just not....your own creepy older brother...._

But when had Sherlock ever been forthcoming with any wishes John had bestowed upon him? So naturally he wouldn’t do so this time either. 

Without opening his eye, he answered in a calm, casual voice. 

“Yes. He was.” 

And then a second later: 

Problem?” 

_Yes there very well is a problem if that answer confirms what’s blatantly staring me in the face right now like some horrible car crash that you can’t stop yourself from looking at while the vehicles bend themselves out of shape while colliding with each other._

“That depends on why you think him being here during a strange time of the day would be a problem for me” he finally settled for. 

"Well, you have a clearly used condom dangling from your fingertips while asking if my brother was here during the early hours of the morning. Don’t disappoint now that you were doing so well with making your own deductions.” 

It felt like a tidal wave had hit him straight from the front, taking his breath away, leaving him gasping for air. 

“How long has this been going on?” he finally whispered. 

“For a long time.” 

“Did it happen when I left to marry Mary?” 

Sherlock actually had the audacity to snort at this. 

“No, why would you marrying her cause me to start sleeping with my brother?” 

John pressed the bridge of his nose with his free hand in exasperation and sighed. 

“For how long then?” 

“Far longer than you can possibly imagine. And then some.” 

John slowly shook his head. 

“But I never once noticed....” 

“Your point being?” 

Ah. Point taken. 

He slumped down in his chair, the condom still dangling from his grip like a sad soggy latex sock. 

“My God....” He mumbled, staring in front of himself without actually seeing anything. 

“Indeed. Now, would you be so kind as to let me rest like you suggested. It’s been quite a straining few hours in more ways than one, and I’m actually feeling rather tired.” 

“But.....” 

“Close your mouth, John and kindly dispose of that condom, would you? And _don’t_ wake me up unless it’s absolutely necessary, I have strained myself both physically and mentally this morning and could really need some well-deserved sleep.” 

With that he turned around facing the back off the sofa and all John was presented with was a shock of dark curls and a dismissive backside. 

_Bloody hell..._ he thought, _Why does living with this man never ever turn normal?_

He continued to stare at Sherlock’s silent form, still reeling from the shock, but at least he had shut his mouth at Sherlock’s direct request. 

He felt like an utter fool and thought back to all those times Mycroft had been here and he never once would have suspected anything like this going on between them. 

In the beginning they had not seemed to have liked each other pretty much, but if Sherlock was to be believed they had probably been doing it all along, even back then. 

His eyes lingered from the firm broad shoulders of his flatmate down to the narrow waist that was accentuated by one of those tight shirt John had always admired from afar and secretly had wondered how the fabric would feel beneath his touch. 

Then his gaze travelled even further down and landed on that plush behind that was such a contrast to all the sharp angles the rest of the body consisted of. 

His eyes stayed there for a long moment, just taking it all in. 

Sherlock was indeed a sight to behold, no wonder Mycroft wanted to get a piece of that arse, he thought to himself, allowing himself to stare now that Sherlock couldn’t see him do it. 

The news that his friend was someone who actually engaged in sexual activities apparently, when John up until now had believed him to have been asexual, did make him suddenly see the man in a new and strangely appreciative light, despite the fact that it was his actual brother Sherlock was having it off with. 

John couldn’t help but wonder if Sherlock would be up for trying someone else in the bedroom as well, his eyes sweeping across those firm buttocks visible through the fabric of his expensive trousers and unknowingly his tongue ran over his lips while continuing to appreciate the view as well as pushing any thoughts of Mycroft’s hands all over that arse, as far away as possible from his mind. 

Just then the phone in his pocket chimed, alerting him to an incoming text and he reluctantly tore his eyes away from Sherlock to take a look at what it said. 

**“If you so much as touch upon the idea that my brother would be even remotely interested in any delusional fantasises you might have, I will send a bullet with your name on it through the living room window. Hands off and eyes diverted from now on, Dr Watson.”**

With a jolt John jumped out of his chair, quickly went over to the waste basket to dispose of the offending condom and then turned on his heels to scurry up to his own room while trying to push away any thoughts of the events coming to light this morning as far away as possible from his mind. 

It would certainly be difficult and with Sherlock as a constant reminder it would turn even more tricky, but if he knew what was good for him he would do his bloody best to abide to the rules Mycroft had dictated from now on and behave. No more ogling for him. 

Better to just turn a blind eye to the rest of it as well, focus on his daughter instead while trying to keep life as normal as it could possibly get when living with a madman like Sherlock Holmes. 

A madman with a dangerous older brother.... 

He involuntarily shuddered as he closed the door behind him and then, after a second’s hesitance, he locked it as well. Better be on the safe side from now on he thought as he threw himself down on his bed and pressed his face into his pillow, groaning. 

What a bloody morning this had turned out to be.... 


	7. 2004 - Train cabin, on a passage to India

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The original first time when John caught the Holmes brother in the act. Without even realising it.

The crowd was overwhelming in every sense of the word both regarding physical closeness, smell as well as noise. 

John managed to squeeze his way through a particularly crammed area on his way to the first-class accommodations where he had been told a functioning toilet as well as something resembling a more normal level of quietness could be had. 

A first class ticket in India didn’t cost a fortune and considering the fact that he was soon to spend the following couple of years in various base camps around Afghanistan he felt that he deserved a last piece of luxury if he could afford it. 

That he had managed to finish medical school despite his family’s misgivings and lack of encouragement hadn’t automatically resolved the issues he had about finding his place in the world. Working as a GP in his hometown had not seemed like a satisfying option and as he was single and not particularly close to any remaining family members he had no obligations to stay where he was and keep a job that did nothing to excite him or keep him stimulated. 

So one random pamphlet about joining the army when he was still in medical school was all it took to convince him to focus his studies towards becoming an army doctor and as he graduated, off he went, his meagre belongings crammed into a duffel bag, a newly acquired passport and over-blown expectations of what this very different situation was going to do to his otherwise unfulfilled existence. 

He had never been outside Europe before and even those rare trips had been limited to a few holidays spent in Benidorm with his family during his early teens. 

Arriving to India was quite another ballpark. 

And after a few days with an overload of everything, his stomach still rebelling against even the slightest intake of food and a strong wish to never be this close to other humans ever again, he was now taking the train to Agra where he was supposed to join a convoy heading for the Afghan border. 

His skin was already showing signs of wear and tear on account of the blazing sun and he had never spent as much time on a toilet as he had since arriving here, so this journey had so far not gone off very well. 

But he was certain that once he arrived to the base camp where he was actually supposed to be working, things would settle into place quickly enough. That India might actually be significantly more comfortable than a war-ravaged area in Afghanistan was something he chose not to dwell on too much, in fear that a dose of realism might make him regret his decision. 

Right now he desperately needed to access a functioning toilet and he continued to push his way through endless groups of people in different formations in the third class wagon to reach his destination.

When he finally reached the first-class accommodations, he was basically bursting and spent the following thirty minutes huddled on the toilet while cursing this blasted country for its spicy food and lack of hygiene. 

That he himself had neglected the advice not to buy food from any random vendor on the street as well as take it easy with the more strong-tasting dishes was not something he added to the equation though. Between stomach cramps, diarrhoea and a constant feeling of nausea, he simply felt very sorry for himself right now.

Finally done and literary drained, he stumbled towards his cabin and threw himself on the bed in a heap of utter exhaustion.   
Too many hours left to go, his bowels certainly not making it any easier and very sleep-deprived as of late, he soon was fast asleep, the steady rhythm of the train rocking him into serenity. 

When he woke next it was dusky outside and the train had stopped. 

Unfortunately there was a reason for the train not moving as it was supposed to be and that reason was lying resolutely on the tracks, a few of them chewing on some grass while others merely stared stubbornly at the onlookers, not caring one little bit that not only John’s train but another one as well, running on a parallel track in another direction, were at the moment unable to move forward on account of their insistence to settle themselves across the rails.

“Bloody cows....” John murmured as he had stepped out of his carriage to take a look at the reason for the delay, among a lot of other passengers. The cacophony of different voices arguing over the situation was overwhelming and made him wish that he had prescribed himself a sedative to sleep through this whole ordeal instead of being forced to endure such chaos for several more hours. 

When being informed that there was no answer to how long the delay would last, he decided to clear his head with some fresh air by walking along the second parked train and, to get away a little bit from the most noisy crowd, he ventured to the other more deserted side of it, where no doors were available. 

The evening air was not as sweltering as during the day but it was still hot outside and he ventured even further away to get some space between himself and the oppressing milieu of the train. He actually stopped and closed his eyes for a moment, just to focus on his breathing. Whatever Afghanistan had in store for him it would still make it hard for him to get this train journey from hell out of his mind easily, and as if to underscore that feeling his stomach once again decided to make itself known by rumbling loudly. He would soon be visiting the toilet again it seemed.

He scrunched his eyes shut while wondering how much more of this he would be actually be able to endure.

When he opened them again he jerked from actual shock.

Because right in front of him, in one of the carriages of the second train, pressed up against a window, were the naked bodies of two men having sex, on full display and not a second of hesitation to their rhythm as one of them, the one pressed up against the window, was having his legs wrapped around the other man’s waist while being pounded into with a steady and forceful pace.

John couldn’t help but stare, his mouth involuntarily falling open and his eye bulging from disbelief.

There was no light from inside the train but since they were so close to the window it made them stand out clear enough anyway and this made John privy to every intimate detail displayed in front of him.

His mouth got dry and despite himself he couldn’t stop staring, almost mesmerized by the steady rhythm in which the two men moved. 

He couldn’t see their faces because one of them was not facing the window, and the one who was had his face buried in the hollow of his lover’s shoulder and neck but their bodies were fully visible. 

The one pressed up against the window was slender and very pale, totally unblemished as far as John could make out, and had a riot of dark curls bouncing to the pace of the intrusion from the other man’s cock. 

Sweat was glistening on his skin and muscles where moving beneath it, making the sight achingly hot even for someone like John who never in his life had been even remotely attracted to bodies of the same sex as himself. 

Watching the sight in front of him right now made him consider revising that opinion though.

The other man was more obscured despite technically facing John. 

He was also very tall but not as slim, a slight pinkish hue to his skin, probably from being in the sun a little too long. His hair was also dark, more or less the same colour but not curly and not as abundant as the first man’s tresses. It was difficult to tell without seeing their faces but he seemed older as well, perhaps in his mid-thirties while the other one seemed much younger, more vigorous in his movements.

The older man’s hands very running up and down the planes of his lover’s back, with fingers clawing at the skin in pure arousal, as if possessively wishing to mark the other one as his and only his by leaving red scratches on the pale smooth skin. 

There was something almost entrancing about the way they so ardently grinded their bodies against one another, as if holding on for dear life, shagging their bloody brains out while the world around them clearly was of no consequence at all. 

It was almost absurd, standing here in the middle of nowhere next to a parked train in India, the evening sky slowly growing darker while the air still felt stale from the oppressing heat as he breathed, probably hundreds of people occupying these two trains while waiting for a pack of cows to hopefully move along soon enough. 

The sound of people talking on the other side of the train, children running around, playing and screaming, someone laughing really loudly and the smell of sweat, skin and dust in the air while these to men were in their own little bubble in the middle of it all, having the most stimulating sex John had ever witnessed, more or less two faceless bodies pounding into one another, fingers clawing at each other and the hint of a tongue evident as it was sucking at the neck of the curly-haired man while he tilted his head backwards to permit better access.

John felt a tingling sensation unfurl at the bottom of his abdomen and this time it wasn’t his bowels making themselves known, but something else entirely, something he wished had remained undefinable but he in reality was very familiar with. 

When he also felt his cock twitch he pressed his nails into the soft flesh of his palms to prevent his focus from wandering off to uncharted territories and make him question a whole lifetime of predetermined sexual preferences. He was hardly capable of going down that path in the state he found himself to be in right now. 

Despite this, he couldn’t keep himself from continuing to stare, totally absorbed by the image presented to him.

Inside the compartment Mycroft was panting heavily as he buried his cock deep into Sherlock’s tight arse, his free hand running idly through Sherlock’s damp curls, the other one stimulating his brother’s balls with skilful movements. They were both sweating profusely from the heat as well as their activities, but somehow it felt nice to sense dampness where his brother’s skin normally was cool and smooth. 

Sherlock’s body was tense and highly strung from Mycroft hitting his prostrate again and again, just inches away from coming but still holding back, wanting the moment to last longer, to keep going until the sensation became unbearable for both of them.

Mycroft heard himself emit a strangled cry as he felt his pulsating cock being enclosed by his little brother’s hot, tight hole and he continued to bury his face into the hollow between Sherlock’s shoulder and neck, desperately inhaling his familiar scent as if intoxicated by it, his teeth scraping against the soft skin, wanting to bury them deeper, devour that beautiful body he had in his possession, mark him all over with angry red bite marks and then lick up the blood trailing from the scrapes. He wanted to taste everything his brother could offer, lick him all over, taste the smoothness of his skin, the sweat as well as the precum leaking from his cock, every bloody atom he consisted of. 

Mycroft knew that he would never tire of having the most beautiful creature imaginable locked in fervent embrace, with Mycroft’s cock buried inside of him while he moaned loudly in his brother’s ear. Just the sound of him was enough to drive Mycroft wild with lust, pounding even harder while tugging at the curls until Sherlock gasped in a combination of desire as well as pain. 

Right now those two sensations were difficult to tell apart, as it was excruciating to prevent themselves from coming while simultaneously delicious to just remain in this moment for as long as humanly possible. 

Pain and desire had always played a prominent part in their difficult relationship, sometimes making it easy to confuse the two feelings with one another. He knew that Sherlock had a tortured streak running through his veins where he sought out danger just to make himself feel alive, and sometimes Mycroft wondered if their relationship was just another high for him, a way for his brother to break yet another rule of convention. 

But they never talked about if and the wheel of their relationship kept spinning with a never slowing pace. For as long as both of them still wanted to be together there was no need to rock the boat by searching too deeply into what they shared between them. All that mattered was that they had each other.

Mycroft eyes opened for a second and he glanced outside where the evening was turning a shade darker as the sun was about to set behind a mountain range by the horizon. The sky was turning a fiery red and he felt his eyes moistening slightly from the beauty of it, combined with the overwhelming physical sensation he was riding through as he pounded with increased speed into his brother while he stared straight at the flaming orb above the mountain tops. 

The sensation of having his brother all to himself at last, as closely inside of him as was physically possible, while far away in a foreign country with none of the usual feelings of fear of exposure, a sense of responsibility and a guilty conscience that he normally associated with being this intimate with his sibling, made him feel elated. 

They were engaging in their first sexual encounter in over six months, the first one since Sherlock had been discharged from rehab, and while also having this breath-taking scenery outside his window, it clearly made him feel overly sentimental. 

It was only a silly weakness of course, one he usually didn’t indulge in, but one he now allowed himself to feel anyway, just this once.

Suddenly his eyes caught some movement further below his vision of sight and he forcefully buried his nails into his brother’s skin as he stiffened from the image of a stranger staring right at him not too far away from the window.

It was a man in his early thirties, not an Indian but a westerner like himself, with sand-coloured hair, the skin of his face a bit sun-burnt and a hungry look in his eyes that told Mycroft that was able to see straight into their intimate little liason and clearly was too absorbed to turn his eyes away even when Mycroft met his gaze. 

Sherlock emitted a pained sound, this one decidedly not as lustful as the first, and he twisted beneath Mycroft’s sharp grip that was digging viciously into him by now.

“What is it?” he hissed, clearly annoyed with being disturbed while losing himself in the sensation of being thoroughly fucked.

“There’s a man staring at us outside our window.”

Sherlock sighed impatiently and even if Mycroft couldn’t see it he could tell that his little brother was rolling his eyes at him. 

“This is _India_ , Mycroft, one of the most crowded places on earth. When is there not someone staring at another human here? The point is that it doesn’t matter. Wasn’t that the whole reason for us travelling this far in the first place?”

“I wouldn’t travel all the way across the globe just to be able to fuck you against a window in front of other people. There are other more secluded places I could have chosen if that had been my sole purpose”

Sherlock pouted slightly at that reply and Mycroft couldn’t resist staring at his plush lips as he continued to bury his cock right to the shaft, feeling himself not being able to last much longer, almost as if his whole body suddenly was on fire, every quivering nerve-end being exposed. 

Not coming right now was proving to be close to torture, and yet he continued to restrain himself from succumbing just a little bit longer, noticing the mischievous glint in his brother’s eye when he deduced Mycroft’s intention. 

“Not worthy enough to make you take the passage to India?” the little tart asked while leaning in to nibble at his throat, his breath the ghost of a whisper against Mycroft’s sensitive skin. His brother was born and bred to be a seductive torturer; the ultimate undoing of any morality Mycroft had ever possessed.

“Oh, you most certainly are...” he choked in a thick voice and felt rather than saw Sherlock’s grip tighten around his arse and he closed his eyes again as a wave of aching pleasure washed over him, making him almost buckle at the knees.

To hell with any spectators! 

It was not like they were ever going to encounter this person again anyway. 

One lonely man looking at a pair of lovers having it off in a first-class train compartment in the northern part of India, two trains accidentally parked next to one another for a short passage of time, then never to be seen again. 

Why should he worry about any of that?

“You’re right,” he murmured and took a firm grip around his brothers slim waist while going for the final thrust, this time sending himself over the edge, white spots of pleasure temporarily blinding him as he succumbed to the sensation of coming hard inside his brother, shutting out the image of the young man staring at them from outside their window. 

The only thing that mattered to him was right here in front of him and nothing else was of any consequence or importance.

He could hear Sherlock panting, the grip of his legs around Mycroft waist tightening as he was bracing himself against the sensation of Mycroft filling him up while pumping a firm hand up and down Sherlock own erect cock, just as a train whistle blew. 

Apparently the standstill was no longer an issue and the trains were about to depart.

When he finally opened his eyes again the man outside the window was gone.

Ten minutes later they were lying spent on one of the beds while the train was once more moving and they continued their journey towards Darjeeling where Mycroft had booked them a room for a week, just the two of them, not completely unlike this train compartment, where time and place had ceased to exist. 

For now and for a week to come, it was just the two of them and nothing else was of any importance. 

The memory of this journey lingered for months to come in Mycroft’s mind as he had long ago returned to London and taken up his normal way of living once more, forlornly staring out the window of his office one afternoon while rain was pouring down outside and the sky had a dishwater-like coloration to it. 

The memory of soft pale skin beneath his fingers and his brother gasping his name into his ear before coming sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine and his stony features softened for a millisecond before hardening once more into its habitual mask of indifference.

5826 kilometres away someone else was also reminiscing about that evening as he laid in his tent, unable to sleep while the sound of a siren in the distance alerted the base occupants of an incoming helicopter. 

In his memories he saw two bodies grinding against each other, sweaty and sleek, naked skin pressed against a train window while he was standing outside silently watching them bring each other to completion. 

And if his hand subconsciously travelled to the hardened bulge formed inside his pants, he chose not to say anything about it.


End file.
